


Running Afoul of Himself

by nivu_vu



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Animal Death, Happy halloween, Knotting, M/M, Mind Break, Rimming, Werewolves, life motto be like dont be stanford pines, vehement denial and hero complexes dont mix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8440741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nivu_vu/pseuds/nivu_vu
Summary: As per the norm, Ford underestimates a situation and overestimates himself. Now, his brother is a threat, and Ford takes it upon himself to quickly stop this mess before it can truly begin.
As per the norm, Ford continues to underestimate the situation while overestimating himself.





	

In the grand scheme of things, this wasn’t the _worst_ mistake Stanford had ever made. At least the fabric of their reality remained intact this time. That did nothing to detract from the idiocy of the mess he’d found himself in, though.

Ford should’ve known that it wasn’t just a simple fever. He knew the signs of lycanthropy by heart, but he’d wanted to believe Stanley was okay. Or maybe he didn’t like to believe that Stanley had gotten hurt under his watch. Regardless of the reason, he saw the signs and chose to ignore them.

And now, the bottoms of his pants legs were stuffed uncomfortably into his boots, a consequence of how fast he’d rushed out of the shack. It only made his haphazard traipsing about the Gravity Falls woods – _in the middle of the night no less_ – more difficult. He debated taking a moment to fix the damn thing, but he couldn’t risk anyone or anything else getting hurt. 

It’d be five minutes later when he found his target.

In the middle of the clearing, crouched over the shredded remains of something that used to be a deer, was Stanley. Hopefully. The probability of another werewolf being located so close to the shack was low enough for Ford to assume that it was, in fact, his brother.

He tightened his grip on the strap of his bag as he took half a step into the open moonlight. Beneath the inhuman pants of his transformed brother filling the thick atmosphere, he could hardly hear the rustle of his hastily gathered supplies.

Stanley apparently did though, and his head snapped up, viscera hanging from his jaws. It only made sense that he would be downright ravenous. He hadn’t been eating much lately due to his… _illness_.

Ford kept his position in the shadows, but his presence was already known; Stan was snarling. His pointed ears pulled back, flat against his head. Ford wondered how much of Stanley was still in there, or if he was, for all intents and purposes, facing a mindless beast. It’d be much easier were it the latter, he mused, and slipped a hand into the bag at his side to look for his weapon.

Nerves caused him to fumble around trying to find the grip of his tranquilizer gun. Which was when he learned that a lot of Stanley must have remained, because that monster was just as much of a shrewd opportunist as his brother. Ford had barely gotten ahold of the gun when Stanley was halfway across the grass. Swiftly, he pulled out his only form of defense and aimed a shot at Stan’s shoulder.

He squeezed the trigger harder than he should have – and _it missed_ , too high by only a few inches. 

Before he could even lament his situation, weighty paws were on his shoulders, slamming him down onto the unforgiving ground. The wolf above Ford shifted slightly, and he saw that long scar along its forearm. Fur refused to grow on it. It looked stretched and ugly as a result of the morphed flesh, but it was confirmation that yes, this was Stanley.

Yes, this was Stanley with his bared teeth and bristling fur pinning Ford to the ground. Blood and saliva dripped from Stan’s curled lips down onto Ford’s face. Still not the _worst_ situation Stanford had ever been in, but far from the best.

He twisted his head slightly, not enough to allow his throat to be torn open but enough to see that his gun was just out of arm’s reach.

This was definitely bad.

Stan’s paws and knees entrapped all of Ford’s limbs. And Stan – who was already normally large compared to Ford – was made even larger by the effects of the curse. It also made him smell strongly of dog, but Ford would tease Stan about that later. First, he needed to figure out a way out of this situation.

He quelled the rising terror in his stomach with a slow breath. Panic wouldn’t be of any help. 

Curse his old age and pathetic aim for getting him where he was. He wouldn’t have made such a mistake a mere two years ago.

Taking stock, he realized he shouldn’t be at any risk of being eaten alive. Stanley just had a meal; the deer bits falling onto Ford’s clothes reminded him of that fact. However, he could be killed due to simple wild aggression.

What he didn’t expect was for Stan to lean his muzzle down and dip his long, hot tongue under Ford’s sweater collar.

_Gross_ – was the only way Ford could describe it. Also maybe disgusting.

Heated breaths from the large wells of Stanley’s lungs dampened Ford’s face, mixing with the chilled sweat of adrenaline, as the appendage continued to explore his clavicles. Stan’s tongue laved fresh gore over Ford’s skin, and it was almost affectionate. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.

Abruptly, Stan pulled back, leaving Ford feeling sticky and with a resurgence of fear. All he could think was that _this was it_. Each approaching moment would be the one that Stan chose to rip into Ford’s body. Each passing moment was a personal miracle.

Then, an even greater miracle arose. In the distance, a wolf – a normal _Canis lupus_ – howled, and Stan’s attention was drawn to it. He lifted his body off Ford to look towards the sky, ears flicking. Ford seized the chance immediately. He flipped himself onto his front, and with just one push of his legs he’d be able to reach his gun and end this and-

But two incredible miracles would be too much in one night. Stan’s bulk was back on him. He was back where he started. The only change was that Stan’s claws were digging into his coat and now it was his chest on the ground. Really not an improvement, except that he could see the tranquilizer more easily. It was more a cruel joke than anything. So close, yet so far.

Ford gritted his teeth and stretched an arm out anyway. With death looming on the horizon, it couldn’t hurt to try.

His hand was instantly captured by a larger, clawed one. Stan had the advantage of animal instinct and Ford had the handicap of being an old man wracked with fear. By this point, the lone reason that kept Ford from resigning himself to his fate was that Stan hadn’t yet begun to attack. Why was Stan just toying with him like a cat would a mouse? Which was an astoundingly terrible analogy considering what genus a wolf belonged to, but the metaphor still stood. Was Stanley still there consciously? Was their bond keeping the beast from killing Ford?

Ford was a firm believer in there being a reason for everything. And if there wasn’t one, he damn well made his own. So this – this utter loss of control over everything, this uncertain prison underneath a creature scarcely an image of his brother, where he couldn’t even fathom why his life still remained – this was torture.

Something told him it was fitting. That his impending death was dragged out by the person he’d hurt most in life. It was his fault after all. He’d seen the signs. He could’ve saved Stanley from the curse, but he didn’t. And now he was suffering the consequences.

He hit his free fist against the earth, which in retrospect wasn’t so smart an idea – he didn’t need to rile the wolf anymore. But he was frustrated, for an endless amount of reasons. The gun was right there – _right there_. And Stanley wouldn’t move, apparently satisfied with just watching Ford struggle against his weight, just watching Ford trying – and failing – to reach that damn gun.

_Why was Stanley always so frustrating?!_

And then the beast moved. And Ford wished he was back to being simply trapped.

He froze as heated flesh rubbed against his thigh.

It couldn’t- Stanley wouldn’t-

Ford turned his head to the side and looked back. Sure enough, the wolf’s – _Stanley’s_ – erection was sliding out of its sheath.

“No, Stanley-“

A warning growl silenced him.

Ford swallowed thickly. His throat was so dry all of a sudden. He hadn’t thought- They were _brothers_. Increased libido was a potential symptom of lycanthropy, but they were siblings. Blood related. That should’ve prevented anything like this from occurring.

Or maybe that would be too human.

Stanley wasn’t a human anymore. Ford was alone in the woods with a monster.

It removed its paw from Ford’s arm, and Ford renewed his grab for the gun. Desperation made his heart pound as claws tore the hem of his pants to pull them down. 

He was so _close_.

Mere _inches_.

His shoulder protested how far he attempted to extend his arm. He felt the wolf press its repulsive cock against his ass, trying to find breach. It was too dry – and Stanford grew even more terrified. He didn’t put it above the animal to force its way in.

However, it mercifully pulled back, moving its grip to Ford’s hips and its body off of him. Ford kicked against the dirt. Useless. Stanley – this thing – was stronger than Ford could ever hope to be.

But he couldn’t help but _try_. His life depended on it. Nothing mattered save for reaching that gun and stopping this nightmare.

Until the wolf’s tongue lapped at his entrance. A shiver shot up Ford’s spine. That was… unexpected. And the action was almost hesitant.

Then it did it again, much surer this time, and Ford had to retract his hand to cover his mouth, some undignified noise threatening to escape his throat.

That seemed to encourage it, because it started to lick in earnest now. The wolf pulled his hips up, and Ford couldn’t fight it. He was helpless to its whims. In more ways than one now.

His body was weak, betraying him, as he reached out with his other hand. He still fought for the weapon, albeit more shakily. He continued to fight, even as his heart beat fast for a new, different reason. He loosened up against his own will. And then the wolf’s tongue was inside him. _Stanley’s_ tongue was inside him. His brother was tasting – invading – him, and it felt _good_.

Ford knew logically that he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this. His life was on the line. And – and it was his brother. His goddamn twin. He wasn’t like- He wasn’t sick enough to have any sexual inclinations towards his brother. Especially not when Stanley wasn’t in his right mind. This was some primal urge, spurred on by an unholy curse. This wasn’t Stanley, and to be getting off on it – Stanley wouldn’t want this.

But Ford wanted this, he realized. So very much.

He told himself that it was just the wolf, because that somehow made it easier. And even if it was a lie, he repeated it in his head as he dug his fingernails into the cold ground. He needed to find something real to hold onto. He needed facts. Rationale. Reason. Something. Anything.

_Anything_ – because he was losing his mind. 

He shouldn’t have, and he _wouldn’t_ have (he swore he wouldn’t have), leaned into the claws scoring lines on his sides, if he had the least bit of sanity left. But the only thing still murking about in his head was the haze of pleasure that he chased harder with each shot of pain.

The gun in front of him faded into a blur, all senses directed towards the viscous wet trails running down his thighs and the urgent press on his inner walls. Heat and touch began to merge into one and the same, so that he could hardly distinguish the wolf’s tongue from his own searing skin. Distantly, he picked up the slick hungry sounds of – _god_ , it was devouring him from the inside out.

Ford knew, though, that it was only carving him open now in preparation of its true intent, and too soon, it removed its tongue from him. The small part of his brain that called for self-preservation – shrunken more due to current circumstances – pulled his hand toward the gun. But he halted, as even that most basic of cognitive functions shattered when the wolf was once more above him and pushing its girth inside. And it was more than successful this time. 

Ford automatically tightened around the intrusion, despite wanting more of it – _deeper_ – _now_. He’d never known he would so crave this stretch and burn until it was actually happening, and it was very real. Too real. Yet this wasn’t something he could hold onto, as he had so desired. Instead, this feeling took ahold of him.

Ford bit into the knuckle of the hand at his mouth in an attempt to bring himself back down, only to immediately remove – he needed to breathe. He was gasping for air because it was too much; Stanley – oh, fuck, it was _Stanley_ , he’d forgotten – was so immense inside him, still somehow sliding in more and more. And then, when Ford believed himself to be as full as he could possibly be, his brother snapped his hips forward and Ford crumbled.

Vaguely, Ford heard his own voice moaning. It’d be embarrassing if he had a damn to give. But the only thing to be damned was him. Damn him for digging his knees into the ground in anticipation of each rough thrust. Damn him for knowing, and loving, that the claws on his hips were marking him. Damn him for crying out for more. Damn him for crying out his brother’s name.

Stanley leaned down and brought his snout close to Ford’s face. Ford wanted to flinch away from the deadly jaw hanging open beside him, but stilled as Stan’s angle changed, each movement now brushing past Ford’s prostate – each movement now giving Ford a small taste of heaven.

He braced a forearm against the dirt, back arching down to cant his lower half up. All so that Stanley could use him more easily, for Stanford _needed_ this.

Stanley took to it readily. He took every advantage Ford’s body chose to offer. The spread of his legs, the ineffective twitch of his hips. It was purely reflexive for Ford. His mind had long broken. Sense and control had been replaced with pitiful pleas to a god he didn’t even believe in, but it was the only word his lust-hollowed mind could vocalize, or maybe it was a prayer for this to never end.

It all was just past unbearable, when Stanley’s thrusts turned short and abortive, and he was shooting his seed deep into Ford. That was the final straw to unravel the knot of tension low in the pit of Ford’s stomach. He managed a low groan, voice hoarse and tired, and he came hard onto the earth below them.

He felt it, as he peaked his high. Stan’s cock swelled just inside of him. Ford was resigned to his fate now. A dazed smiled tugged at the corner of his lips – he was full, so full of Stanley. All he could feel was Stanley. He couldn’t even feel himself. The satisfying numb of a blinding climax had robbed him of that last fragment of self.

Stanley bent low over Ford, covering him protectively, or a parody of the notion. Ford absentmindedly noted how rough Stan’s fur was as they laid there. Their hearts possibly in sync, Stan’s loud animalistic one hammering along Ford’s rapid beats. It wasn’t far off from their normal tones.

Moments later, Ford felt Stanley pulse within him, and more fluid pumped out. A choked noise escaped his already worn throat. There was so much of it. And no reprieve with Stan tied tight inside of him.

Ford squirmed slightly. He was too sensitive, unable to completely recover from his orgasm with the unrelenting fullness keeping all his nerves fired. Really, he could only comprehend one thing anymore. 

_Stanley_ – Stanley was his body and every corner of his fringed consciousness. Stanley might as well have consumed Ford’s soul.

The overwhelming ache was edging to torment, and Ford was left suffering for another few minutes, until finally the pressure within started to abate. Finally, Stanley stirred and disengaged them.

A huge sense of relief washed over Ford. However, along with it came sense in general.

His mind gradually righted itself. Pieces slotted with one another, and in a matter of mere seconds, he had his first cohesive question, a foolish one: what had he just done..?

The next thing to return was the ability to feel. He realized this when his pride came crashing with the drowning weight of shame. He didn’t want to think about what was flowing freely down his thighs, but that was the price of higher mental processing.

Ford shuddered. He was warm, he was sure, yet for some reason he felt so cold.

The wolf lifted itself and moved away from Ford, giving him the opportunity to sit up and curl in on himself. He watched the beast make its way to the ruined deer carcass. Ford faintly remembered how he’d been afraid to end up like it. Now, he wasn’t sure which outcome was worse.

The wolf rounded on the remains, and it looked unruffled, unfazed. There appeared to be no evidence of what had just transpired on it. Physically or mentally. Ford, on the other hand…

That had to be the most miserable fact. Only one person would remember this when everything was said and done. He could almost sense a pattern emerging between him and Stanley.

Ford turned his attention down to the narrow valley formed between his thighs and his chest, and looked at the guilt staining his clothes and skin. It would probably never wash off, but that was neither here nor there.

He’d had worse.

Ford shook his pounding head, grabbed the gun, and fired.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure it's still Halloween for someone at the time of posting this, right? Happy Halloween, everyone! I hope all of you had a safe and spooky day.


End file.
